


Beautiful/Damned

by cheshirecatstrut



Category: Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, F/M, Recreational Drug Use, hedonists with money
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2018-09-22 07:14:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9590777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecatstrut/pseuds/cheshirecatstrut
Summary: The cage door's open, but Logan's still inside.





	1. Sparks

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a one-shot posted for the VMHQ 1k word fic challenge. But then I had More Thoughts, so now it's a chapter fic. Warning to my regular readers, it's a bit darker and more cynical than my usual fare. :-)

  
[](http://imgur.com/ZEH3r5g)  


**Cover art by wonderful individual CMackenzie** 

The acid’s kicking in. Logan can feel it, that disjointed, dreamy lethargy, creeping through his limbs, almost like floating. Time becomes discontinuous, little skips and starts, but it doesn’t matter. He’s lived this day so many times…he knows the steps by heart.

He’s on a blanket on a beach, his yacht moored nearby. A bonfire burns, sending sparks sizzling, spiraling up into the night sky. Twenty years old, son of two movie stars; he’s won the get-out-of-jail-free card, thanks to his diploma, from the Old Man’s belts. And his prize for silence? More money than he can ever spend. Around him, the party whirls, his Idle Rich friends less languid than usual because Lilly’s brought a boom box. Something loud and raunchy blares, rap he doesn’t recognize—thank God she’s past her show tunes phase, and into music suitable for fucking.

Lifting up on one elbow, he checks her—dancing, grinning, golden California bundle of sunshine. She’s barefoot, in a silver gauze dress spangled with gold stars. And currently grinding on his former housekeeper’s son, a two-strikes-begging-for-three type she’s adopted as a pet. The asshole’s not looking at her, though, like anyone with a grain of sense would, while demonstrating his moves. His black gaze is fixed on Logan…this universe’s dark heart.

Logan ought to banish the guy, for boning his girlfriend in a classic case of transference. Not to mention, low-rent-in-leather copes with self-loathing jealousy via threats and fists. Instead, he scratches his bare chest and smiles, his slowest, most taunting smirk—what you want’s not on the table. Just one more thing you’ll NEVER have.

The upstart from the serving class scowls and turns away. Logan collapses happily flat, gazing up at the stars.

“Why must you torment him?” Veronica asks, to his right, with the dry inflection that never fails to make him smile. He turns just his head to look at her. She’s lying belly-down in the sand, cheek resting on her folded arms. In the firelight, her pale skin glows as if lit from within.

“Because I’m…what’s the term? A cuckold?” He murmurs the words, intimate because it feels intimate, two on the blanket, isolated by the dark. Shrugs one shoulder and manages a wink, which makes her snort. “And also, because I caaaaaan.”

“You are WASTED.” V sits in a burst of brisk energy, examining his pupils like it’s playing-doctor time. She’s gorgeous in a hot pink halter dress embroidered with roses; must be Lilly’s, it’s cut dangerously low. Her hair is damp, and her legs are covered with sand. “Wasted and provocative, and NOT in the good way.”

“There’s a bad way?” He tries a different smile on her…one promising secrets, meant to lure her closer. Veronica and her luminous inner shine, so much goodness her skin can’t contain it--but still, somewhere deep within, something dark swims.

Never mind she’s his girlfriend’s (ONLY) friend, and not the kind of woman who can be had with a smile. Never mind he’s not capable of feats of derring-do she’d admire.

It calls to him, that sultry thread of darkness. It whispers, only I understand.

“Bad for YOU,” she clarifies, shaking sand off her book. Uses a napkin to neatly mark the place. “You’re listening to that old self-destructive siren song, even though you KNOW you’ll drown.”

“Veronica.” He eases upright, leans close to murmur in her ear. He LOVES the way her skin breaks out in goosebumps, every single time. “If I didn’t enjoy things that are bad for me, would I really be HERE?”

She shrugs, wide blue lucent gaze fixed on his. Says, “If you were a tiger who’d lived your whole life in a zoo, and someone opened the cage…would it take a while, before you realized you were free?”

He laughs, because freedom only exists in fairy tales, myths of the open road. He’s bound to this life by paparazzi and trustees, inertia and shame. By Lilly, who laughs and sips champagne, as she dances on his grave.

She’s beckoning him now, Lils is, scraping back sweaty hair and smiling come-hither; cleavage strains her structured dress. He presses a palm to his chest, makes a fake-surprised ‘Moi?’ face, and she laughs and beckons. Nothing turns Lilly Kane on like unattainability.

“I’m right where I belong,” he tells Veronica, who’s watching Lilly too-- Lilly draws the eye. “Even when the lock’s broken…dangerous animals need bars.”

He surges up, through the fractured, herky-jerky dark, even though he doesn’t want to…it’s like turning his face from the moon. He sambas forwards, curls his palm around Lilly’s ass. Smiles into her eyes, and lets himself fall.

Time blurs and twists, wavers and warps, as he dances and laughs and trips and lies. He’s in the water, stumbling against the undertow. He’s by the fire, tossing in sticks, staggering back as it sparks and flares. He’s on the blanket, again, with Veronica, again, gazing into her eyes. Asking, “If you did something terrible for a good cause, what would it be?”

She smiles, wide and white and calculating, and replies, “Is that permission?”

When he wakes, back aching like fire, it’s as if he’s returned to the cradle; warm and close, quiet and dark, plush bed gently rocking. He’s engulfed in softness, downy mattress, comforter like clouds, body of a girl spooned in the curve of his. She’s compact like Lilly but more…delicate.

He stretches, luxurious, against silky skin, registering clothes, shorts, a t-shirt, hair fine as cobwebs tickling. His hand slides down a dainty belly, into the warm, coarse denim between legs; he presses his nose to her throat. Vanilla, sugar, musk, white flowers. Lust. Veronica.

His lashes flutter open and he’s staring out a porthole, at a flat expanse of ocean, diamond-spattered by morning sun. Enveloped in him, Veronica stirs, moans, wakes.

“Where are we?” He asks, voice hoarse with overindulgence. He clears his throat.

“I kidnapped you, as a personal favor.” She turns in his arms to press her face to his chest, unrepentant. Her arm creeps around his waist and settles, palm flat against his spine. It feels comforting, spread there. Sure. “We can go wherever you want, anyplace in the world. Except back.”


	2. Kindling

Logan stands in the miniscule shower, palms flat against the wall, and lets the spray drench him as he strategizes. He doesn’t remember much about the night before; just fits and flashes, the one moment where V grinned ferally and asked, “Is that permission?” He doesn’t THINK they slept together—feels sure, at least on some level, he’d remember. But really, he’s capable of anything while losing chunks of time. Who knows what he’s done.

He fumbles for soap, lathers, runs the bar over his head for good measure and scrubs that too-- it’s sandy, like the rest of him. He’s dehydrated and shaky, the chlorinated water burns his eyes; so he does the minimum and crawls out, dripping all over the floor as he studies his unshaven face.

“Brush your teeth,” he tells the wreck in the glass. “Smells like something crawled in your mouth and died. Then wake the fuck up, and figure out where on the Pacific Ocean you ARE.”

A quick search of the gold-trimmed vanity yields disposable toiletries; the yacht’s always prepped, so he can haul twenty of his nearest and dearest somewhere pointless. They’ve been underway long enough he can’t see land out the porthole. When Veronica decides to make a statement, she doesn’t screw around.

He’s not sure he CARES where they’re going, to be brutally honest. Feels a thrill down through his belly as it hits home--he’s alone with her, and she’s ARRANGED it. They can do what they want, here in this private place, and nobody will know or see.

There’s no guilt at the prospect, just a creeping excitement, and what does that say about him? He can’t believe she’s fine with skipping town for good, which means she’s unlikely to burn every bridge. But she SAID as much, and the faint possibility is…terrifying, like all deeply exciting things.

He puts on the clean clothes he found lying on the bedroom chair—Veronica must have gone exploring while he was passed out—then dons his best forbidding face. Because the girl in the bedroom is sneaky, behind that deceptively innocent glow. It’s best, when dealing with her, to start from a position of strength.

She’s still in bed, dozing atop the blue velvet spread, braless in cutoffs and a black tank; there’s a dreamy look on her face that makes him half-hard. He crosses his arms, leans a shoulder against the wall, and clears his throat. She rouses, all soft and forbidden.

“What’s this about, Veronica?” he asks, voice flat, even though he doesn’t THINK she’s toying with him the way Lilly would. “Why did you kidnap me, really?”

A shadow crosses her face, quick and faint—guilt? Bingo. “I rescued you,” is all she says, though, and then she firms up, defiant. “You should feel grateful.”

“Rescued me how?” He lets his tone slide into sardonic. “We go on weekend jaunts all the TIME. The only difference with this variation is, at the moment, we’re alone. Is THAT your motivation? Scheming to get me all to yourself?”

“For one thing, it’s not the weekend,” she says, matching his sarcasm. “And for another, why should I feel tied to Neptune? My mom ran off years ago, and my dad is dead. I’ve been Lilly’s hanger-on since Junior Year. Might as well be yours instead, is my logic. We’ve been playing what-if-we-slept-together forever, and you actually pay attention when I talk.”

“You want to be my hanger-on?” He quirks a brow, resolve hardening—if there’s one thing he hates, it’s being used. Moves closer, planting a knee on the bed, herding her towards the wall. Her breath speeds up…scared or excited, he’s not sure. “You realize I’d require services Lilly doesn’t, right?”

“No you wouldn’t,” she says, like she’s sure, but retreats off the side of the bed anyway. He prowls after, crowding her, and shakes his head in mock chagrin.

“Veronica,” he chides. “Talking back hints at attitude, which is not an attractive quality in a groupie. You’re supposed to bend, cheerfully, to my every outlandish whim.”

“You wish,” she says, and he smiles, because he DOES wish. And the flush spreading across her face and chest, the avid way she’s watching him, makes it clear she does, too. The thrill through his groin’s so sharp, his whole anatomy salutes.

“You have no idea,” he agrees, nudging her gently into the hull. He notches his sex to hers with exaggerated care, watching her eyes while he does it, daring her to call a halt. Leans in with excruciating slowness while she pants frustration, and feathers his lips over hers.

She moans when he pushes in his tongue, CLIMBING him, gripping his hair like she’ll fight attempts to pull free. Her soft, trembling mouth is hot, voracious; he presses his palms flat against the paneling and rocks, and God, it feels AMAZING. She’s wet even through the denim, eager, and he never wants to stop.

It takes effort to disengage, but he does. Because this is a lesson Veronica needs right off the bat, or she’ll walk all over him. “Teensy problem, though,” he murmurs, lips brushing her cheek, jerking back as she chases his mouth. “I don’t want you if I have to pay for the privilege.”

He sets her down, carefully because she’s delicate; leaves her, eyes slitted and breathing hard, half-collapsed against the wall. Adjusts himself, because the way she’s looking at him makes his shorts chafe. Jesus, he’s an idiot for not tossing her on the bed and fucking her senseless.

“Yes you do,” she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. He gives a ghost of a laugh, because true. She doesn’t get the satisfaction of knowing how much, though. She’s cocky enough already.

“Well.” He dusts his hands together theatrically, shoves them into his pockets to create room for his dick, “Not that this hasn’t been fun, but I for one would like to know where we are. Think I’ll head upstairs and have a word with the captain while you…freshen up?”

Her lip curls, and he says, “Take your time, Veronica. Thanks to you, whatever appointments we may have booked today are officially off the table.”

XXXXX

He climbs the stairs to the deck and she follows, of course she does. The crew, clad in those ridiculous piped magenta uniforms his father chose, are setting the table for breakfast; he chooses a pretty, angular brunette at random and asks, “So. Where are we headed?”

“Ixtapa.” She flashes a professional smile, gestures for him to sit in the built-in nook. He does, grimacing at the excess of red velvet and leopard print. He ought to redecorate, since the boat’s now his, but somehow he never makes time. “With a pit stop for refueling in Mazatlan, a day and a half from now. It’s a ninety-six hour journey, total, so feel free to unwind.”

He turns to Veronica, because what the hell? Says, “I hope you brought passports.”

“Don’t worry, it’s handled.” She sits primly on the bench beside him, as if she’d never climb a guy like a tree. Her virtuous pristineness clashes with the Liberace aesthetic. “This isn’t my first spontaneous travel rodeo.”

Logan deliberately relaxes into a sprawl, surrendering to the inevitable; reminds himself he’s not, in fact, out of control. “Well, if I’m enduring a two-week kidnapping, I should keep up my strength. What’s on the menu?”

“What do you want?” Veronica asks. His answering grin actually makes her blush. “I told the chef you’d send a message, once you were up and moving around.”

“Now see, that’s better,” he says, approving. “First-class concubine work. NEVER assume.” He turns back to the brunette, hovering nearby. “I’ll have an omelet with whatever fresh vegetables you’ve got on hand, and a Bloody Mary. Veronica probably prefers something carb-laden and caloric; but I’ll let her hash out details, because sycophants should fend for themselves.”

His erstwhile abductor rolls her eyes, and says, “Pancakes, with bananas if you have them. Lots of bacon, orange juice, and the strongest coffee you can make, black.”

“Hmmm, you should be more careful.” Logan settles into the bench, studying her with both lust and rancor. The way she stares back, fearless and daring, has always fascinated him; it’s worse now, because he’s still turned on, and too exhausted to fake lazy charm. “If your ass gets fat, I have no incentive to keep you around.”

“That comment stung, didn’t it?” She folds her arms, unfazed. “The quip about hangers-on? I wasn’t serious, Logan. The fact that we’re even here, now, proves I’m a true friend.”

“DOES it?” He smirks, taking pains to seem complacent. “The kind with benefits, I hope? Or just the kind who hijack each other’s yachts to travel somewhere specific for free?”

There’s that look of faint discomfort again—yeah, he’s guessed right, Veronica and her fucking deep games. She only smiles, extra-bitchy, though, and offers, “Who says I can’t be both?”

“Wow!” He enunciates with over-exaggerated relish. “You must REALLY want to go to Ixtapa. Is it politic to fuck your meal ticket’s boyfriend up and down the Mexican coastline, Veronica, solely so you can hitch a ride?”

“IF I fuck you,” she informs him, indulgently, with a TWINKLE, “it’ll make you MY boyfriend. And fond as I am of Lilly, that’s a trade up, Echolls. Because I actually care about your feelings, and I don’t cheat.”

He laughs, full-throated; she is priceless. “Never let it be said you lack nerve. But you’d hate being my girlfriend, angel face--outside the bedroom, I’m not all that nice. Besides, you knew when you wheedled this boat away from the dock I’d wake up and give in. It’s not like a trip to Mexico involves suffering. And I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“Says the unregenerate asshole.” She shakes her head, smiling faintly. “Never resort to a life of actual crime, Logan. Your subconscious white knight complex would hamstring you.”

The food comes—nothing like a chef on call—and Logan grabs his beverage, draining half in one long, thirsty gulp. If Veronica starts EXPECTING THINGS from him, other than size, stamina and world-class head, it’s going to be a long fucking trip. Best get hammered now, and ignore any fallout until it goes away.

XXXXX

He drinks steadily as she powers through a lumberjack’s breakfast, chokes down enough of his own meal to keep from starving. Because why end the suffering, when someone upstairs has taken pains to make it so elaborate? She sips her coffee while he watches, lips curving tenderly around the cup’s edge, and he thinks about the way she moaned while he pressed her to the wall. He wants to strip her little shorts off and bend her over the table, and that’s bad, worse than bad. Nothing positive can come of fixating on Veronica Mars. So he settles back, stares out over the undulating, sun-struck ocean, and orders another cocktail.

She’s silent, mostly, giving him space to brood--displaying the fine-tuned instincts of a hunter who knows her dart’s struck home, and poison’s spreading. Logan imagines, as intended, what life would be like as her boyfriend. She’s tenderness and steel, soft hands and words like razors. Far too many expectations, deft but brutal truths. He suspects the species of lust she boasts maybe matches his; and she’s loyal, his Achilles heel. Veronica’s always been steadfast, though he gives her little on which to base faith.

That filament of darkness in her seduces, as she watches him with catlike eyes. You can’t handle what I’ve got, it dares. When my schemes twist, and I choose them over you, you’ll fall apart.

He’d risk drowning in tears, to prove her wrong. He wants to draw forth a hunger in her so desperate she’ll never walk away.

Logan sets down his drink with a clank, not so much deciding he’ll succumb as ceasing to struggle. He’s no good with denial, and the journey is long. Plus she’s sleek, defiant, irresistible really, and he wants to lick every inch of her skin.

He stands, holds out a hand; she studies it for a minute before draining her coffee, and twining her fingers through his. She skirts the table and follows, with every indication of willingness, as he leads her silently downstairs.

XXXXX

Back in the master suite, he shuts the door, leans against it arms folded, and lets her squirm. She prowls, nervous energy betraying her angst though she seems nonchalant; he thinks, at least in this, I have the upper hand. “Take off your clothes,” he says, just to be a dick.

“Romantic,” she observes, turning jerkily to face him. “Are you back on that deluded groupies-do-what-I-say kick again?”

He crosses to her, instead of answering, peels her shirt off, and throws it across the room. Lifts her onto the bed and licks a circle around her nipple, draws it between his teeth. Her breath escapes in a soft huff and he switches sides, sucking and laving, inhaling her musky, powdery scent. Her hair falls down around her face, silky-fine and burnished, as she watches, big-eyed with surprise; her hands come up to cradle his cheeks. He unsnaps her shorts and shoves them down her legs, taking her panties along. Eager, now that it’s finally happening, to make the fantasy real.

“Don’t you want to…” she begins, hesitant, but he licks into her navel and then up between her legs, ravenous for the concentrated scent of her, the taste of her response. It’s all about control and lust, he knows that—he wants to make her beg. Her quick gasps, as he fucks her with his tongue and fingers, are almost more satisfying than the prospect of his own release.

Her knees crumple and he follows her down, folding her legs up out of the way so he can eat her out until she comes apart. She’s whimpering now, writhing against his face, like she knows it’s not polite but can’t help herself; he smirks as he employs both hands, pushing his tongue deeper. Then she’s contracting all around him, moaning his name like only HE could turn her out this way, and it’s sweet, so sweet. It’s VICTORY.

He shucks his own clothes and scrabbles in the drawer beneath the platform bed for a condom, his skin hypersensitive as he covers her. God, she’s silky all over, delicate and sinfully soft. He kisses the warm, fragrant spot behind her ear, sucks there, and she says, “I had no idea it could be this good. I didn’t KNOW.”

“Want more?” he asks, curling her fingers around the rubber. “Put it on and let me fuck you. I promise I can make this feel even better than my mouth did.”

She whines, small, eager noise, and fumbles the packet open, sending a thrill up through his chest, down into his cock. Smooths the rubber over him with both hands, stroking until he groans and pulls her hands away. He kisses her palms, rolls her onto one side, and pushes in from behind, just for the sheer hedonistic pleasure of the fit. She’s unbelievably wet and tight, and he lets out a slow breath; pulls back to fuck her with just the tip, toying gently with her nipples as she writhes and moans. He shoves in deep, once, resumes his shallow thrusts, deploying a hand between her legs to trace her labia. Feathers over the hood of her clit, while he nuzzles her nape. She says his name, in that aching way that seems TENDER.

“What?” he asks, smile in his voice. She arches back against him and he retreats, because he has zero intention of finishing this fast. “I’m teasing you until you come,” he informs her. “If you want more, reward me with orgasms. Show me how MUCH you want it. Convince me.”

Fluids gush against his hand, her body sure of its response. He pinches both nipple and clit and drives deep twice; she comes hard, contractions all through her belly as her breath sobs out. Rolling her onto her knees, he lifts her hips, and allows himself the luxury of full, careful penetration…predictably, it’s ecstasy. Her ass is precisely heart-shaped, her waist is tiny, he wants to make this last but there’s no way that’s happening. Four deep, exquisite thrusts he manages, stroking her cervix, making her moan, five; then she twines her hand with his, where it carefully grips her hip, and he’s lost. He can’t handle so much soft, pretty sweetness, giving and giving like there isn’t any quid pro quo.

He comes, slow and luxurious, gently massaging her clit, kissing between her shoulder blades. Keeps touching her through the thrills and aftershocks, wanting her pleasure, every drop. Caresses and kisses until she comes again around his softening dick and says his name one last time, powdery-sweet. She lifts his hand, presses her lips to the back.

Logan holds her there, engulfing her, until the rhythmic thrills fade, and he’s wrung out every second of satisfaction. When he lets go, she disengages and turns, then wraps her whole body around him and kisses his mouth. It’s loving and intimate, gentle and kind. Everything he doesn’t want to be, which she somehow draws out.

He thinks of the coffee cup, as he plumbs between her soft lips, taking everything she offers, taking more. He licks at her, drinks from her, curls his arms around her tight.

And realizes, when he has trouble stopping…he might never get enough.


	3. Embers

CHAPTER THREE

Logan falls asleep that night wondering what to do about the conundrum that’s Veronica Mars; he wakes up the next morning with plenty of ideas, all bad. In lieu of ceding her control of his brain for the day before he’s figured out her plan, he jerks off quickly in the shower, has a five-bourbon breakfast, and manages to avoid her until they dock in Mazatlan.

Or maybe, having gotten what she wanted, she’s content to avoid HIM? His mind’s a tad too fuzzy to work through pesky details.

His plan is to slip off the boat and ditch her for the afternoon—maybe find a spring-breaking college student in a bar, plant his dick somewhere more Lilly-approved. But she foils him by appearing as he’s sneaking down the ramp, wearing a bright red sundress with no bra that scrambles his synapses, and roses twisted through her pinned-up hair.

Her neck is long and elegant, gold-tinged tendrils fluttering against her dainty nape. He can’t help remembering how she moaned when he sucked on it, or pondering how much he’d like to again.

“So, where are we headed?” she asks brightly, shouldering a tote bag. Smiling, faintly shark-like, to show she knows he’s fleeing. “First Mate Desiree tells me there’s a banging aquarium with a statue of Poseidon, and a place called ‘Plazuela Machado’ that’s got good things to eat.”

“I was thinking bar.” He deliberately lengthens his stride, smirking when she has to trot to keep up. “Maybe taco bar, or maybe just someplace with tequila shots and beer.”

“You know, the fact that we fooled around is no reason to get surly,” she says, in that sardonic tone he secretly loves. “We understand each other, right? We both know this fling has an expiration date.”

“Didn’t you say something last night about our sexual tension being there from the start?” He stops to better get in her face, and predictably, she doesn’t back up. “So tell me, since in fact we HAVE fooled around, as you so euphemistically phrased it. If I were to drag you along to this hypothetical bar, pick up a girl like I’m half-considering, and leave you to find your own way back…how far would ‘understanding’ stretch?”

“I thought I made myself clear during yesterday’s breakfast binge,” she says, unperturbed. “Once we did the deed, you became my boyfriend. I OWN you now. No girls in bars for you, sweet cheeks, until I decide to cut you loose.”

He laughs, surprised and a little delighted, as a thick, warm wave of lust rolls through him. “DO you?” he asks, putting a hand on her shoulder, thumb stroking the spot about which he was just daydreaming. “Like a rodeo rider owns a Brahma bull, maybe. Better hang on tight, or you’ll get tossed on your ass.”

“I’d be willing to bet,” she says, with a lurking smile, “that I could ride you just fine.”

Aaaand now he’s got a boner. Logan looks away, jangling change in his pockets as he tugs fabric to make room. They’re on a pier at the very basic Marina Mazatlan, a rock-and-cement establishment that mostly boasts a parking lot. From here he can see the cab the ever-efficient Desiree called, idling with windows down so the driver can smoke.

“Fine.” He tries for put-upon with his tone and mostly succeeds. “No picking up girls, and I’ll take you to a restaurant. But it’ll have a full bar, and I WILL get drunk. And as for this whole girlfriend/boyfriend thing…don’t count your chickens.”

He points at her to emphasize, which again fails to faze her, then stalks off to the waiting cab. Flings himself in more clumsily than he’d like, since those five bourbons are fucking with his balance, and barely waits for her to shut the door before telling the driver, “Centro Historico, Plazuela Machado. Just drop us in front of La Tramoya. And since Desiree hired you and she only speaks Valley Girl—your tip will double if you admit you understand me.”

“La Tramoya, you got it,” the guy says, about as chastened by this sally as Veronica, and takes off with a squeal into dockside traffic. Logan rests his hand on his backseat companion’s knee, easing it under the ruffled red hem; she gives him a look from beneath her lashes that makes him vow to stop using rodeo metaphors.

“So clearly Mazatlan’s a waypoint.” He strokes the tender crease at the bend with his thumb, which elicits a nice little wiggle. “Or you would have let me ditch you, the better to carry out your secret scheme. And also clearly, you don’t want me enjoying a lost weekend here--you chased after me to play babysitter, which is SO not your style. Are we on a schedule, Veronica? Is whatever’s waiting for you in Ixtapa time-dependent?”

“Nice try,” she says, just slightly breathy as his hand eases farther up her thigh. She plants her own atop, thwarting him. “You said it was fine if we went wherever, as long as you got what you wanted--which you did yesterday, in spades. And don’t forget the favor I performed, rescuing you in the first place. If anything, Logan, you owe ME. And I’ll collect by refusing to answer questions.”

“Hmmm.” He leans sideways to nuzzle the spot behind her ear. Whispers, “You know eventually I’ll figure it out.”

“But not today,” she says, powder-soft, and tilts her head to give him better access.

He bites down on the spot about which he’s obsessing, gentle pinch of teeth, and she shivers. Her grip on his hand loosens, and he’s pondering her stance on fooling around in cabs when the driver says, “La Tramoya, like you ask.” And meets his eye significantly in the rearview.

Logan overpays the guy by a factor of ten because why the fuck not, and urges Veronica onto the hot, cracked sidewalk, insufficiently shaded by palm trees. They’re in the tourist-friendly walking district, a ring of bright-painted, two-story houses surrounding a rectangular park, at the center of which sits a Victorian gazebo. Vacationers have descended in droves, outnumbering the locals two to one--or maybe locals don’t leave home when it’s this hot outside. Half a block down, an ice cream vendor does a brisk business out of a bicycle-pulled cart, watched avidly by a skinny black dog.

Leading her beneath the tarp that serves as an awning, Logan tugs La Tramoya’s door open, ushers her into the tangerine-and-yellow interior. It’s blessedly cool, if somewhat dim, the walls hung with painted beach scenes and strings of colored lights.

Another lavish tip gets them a seat by a window. He sinks into the chair across from Veronica, orders a new installment on his bourbon binge, and smiles when she asks for pineapple soda.

“So the way I see it,” he says, after his first throat-burning swallow, “You and I need to strategize. We burned a pretty big bridge, disappearing from Lilly’s party, and it’s not going to matter to anyone whose idea that was. Secrets between us, at this point, are counterproductive.”

“Says you.” She takes a dainty sip, wrinkling her nose as the beverage effervesces. “I come down firmly on the side of circumspection.”

“Veronica…” He sighs, flicking her bottle cap across the hot pink runner covering the white tablecloth. Downs the rest of his drink. “You can keep me in the dark about what you want with my yacht, and which problems, exactly, you think this disappearing act solves. But you and I both know your hanger-on aspirations are bullshit. You don’t want to follow me around, and I wouldn’t let you if you did. Which means if Lilly finds out we got familiar yesterday, you’re out a place to live.”

The waiter returns, pen poised; Veronica, hastily grabs a menu and orders poblano soup and steak. Logan asks for calamari and another bourbon, then just stares at her until she speaks.

“Look, I’m not ready to discuss Ixtapa,” she says finally, ever-cautious. “But if you’re worried this trip will cause me problems, don’t. I’ve been living with the Kanes because JAKE insisted, not Lilly. She doesn’t have the power to kick me out.”

“Jake.” He lifts his brows as unsavory concubine scenarios unspool in his head. “When you moved in with them you were SIXTEEN!”

“NO!” she says, shocked. Has the audacity to giggle, and muffles it with the back of her hand. “God no, I would never! It’s just that Jake…he….thinks he’s my father.”

A beat passes, two, while Logan waits for the punchline. “You’re shitting me,” he says finally, when no follow-up comes.

She shakes her head, making the flowers shiver beneath a gust of air conditioning. “He’s not, of course—I had a DNA test to be sure—but when dad died and mom ran off, I needed a place to stay. Don’t you think, if Jake felt less guilty, Celeste would have thrown me out by now? She HATES me. And Lilly’s made it clear she loathes sharing the limelight. Luckily I’m good at games, or I might have lived in a cardboard box senior year.”

Picking up the bottle cap, she spins it on its edge, watching intently until it falls. Looks up at him, a trace of ruefulness shadowing those blue, blue eyes. “Playing Cinderella in that mausoleum has taxed my ingenuity, though, ever since I graduated. And the other night on the beach…you seemed miserable. So I made a choice. And that’s the truth.”

“Well this is a Gordian knot.” He accepts the new beverage he’s brought and downs it in one swallow. “Because you seem to think leaving Neptune solves everything. But MY devil’s bargain means I never can.”

“You HAVE left, though,” she says, stating the obvious. “You’re GONE.”

“For a week, maybe.” He traces a fingertip around the rim of his glass. “Not forever. I’ve got enough leverage over the old man to make him fund me and keep his… opinions to himself, provided I don’t sully his image. I even get castoffs like the yacht, once he upgrades to a bigger version.”

“But?” she asks, when he pauses.

“BUT,” he concedes, “he’s got equal and opposite leverage, in the form of my mother. She won’t leave him, Veronica. And I can’t move against him unless she does, or every urge he’s restraining he’ll inflict on her. My only option is to play trained monkey for that asshole until he drinks himself to death. Unless, of course, I manage to do myself in first.”

She’s silent for a moment, digesting this--he thinks maybe she’ll offer unwelcome sympathy. But instead she asks, “What do you have on him? In terms of dirt, I mean. I figured it was good, because several years ago he quit acting like you were pals. But I never knew details.”

Logan frowns; no one’s ever asked him to come clean, point-blank. Then again, she gave him all the data he needs to ruin her, vis-a-vis Jake, so fair is fair. “A surveillance video,” he admits. “Of a night when we were juniors; Aaron lost his temper and…hit me a lot more than normal. I went through a detective agency to get it, so I’d be able to prove later it’s real. But actually using the thing for more than threats would provoke a shit storm. In which you’d be caught, if you tried standing next to me.”

“The ‘surfing accident’,” she says, not a question. “The one that put you in the hospital for a week.”

Cautiously, he nods. Her jaw clenches, her eyes fill with actual tears, and she looks away. “God, Logan. I knew he was a shitty person with a temper, but I didn’t…if you’d told me this was happening before dad died, we could have DONE something!”

His gaze softens as he watches her get control of her face, and something yearning unfurls in his chest. “Sure…you could have made yourself targets,” he says. “That’s it, though. He gets rid of anyone non-rich and powerful who learns the truth, Veronica. Tossing my wasted ass on a yacht and taking off for parts unknown won’t endear you to him either.”

“After we’re done with this trip,” she says, very serious, “I’m not going back to Neptune. So you can feel free to tell whatever story serves your purposes. Besides, Jake thinks I’m his to protect, remember? And Aaron can’t hurt me if he can’t find me.”

“See, you’re making my problems sound manageable.” He nods as the waiter sets down a plate of calamari, picks up a tentacle with his fingers. And, determined not to ponder impending life without Veronica, orders another drink. “But all Dad has to do to find us is contact the boat crew—which he will, once he notices I’m missing. Also, if I were you, I wouldn’t underestimate Lilly. She LIVES to torment my side pieces, and she’s uncannily good at tracking me down.”

“Noted,” V says, spooning up a mouthful of soup, and her calm demeanor soothes him. “Your twin nemeses can mess with me at their peril. Now try to get something in your stomach besides booze. It’s hot outside, and I can’t carry you back to the yacht.”

Once she’s eaten her weight in red meat and he’s gotten nice and pickled, he throws some five-hundred-peso notes on the table and they head outside. The sun’s beating down like the ozone layer’s history, and Logan lets the warmth slide through him, make him lazy and reckless.

V’s watching a jazz band play at the bar next door while searching for a cab; the light shines through the fine cotton of her dress, illuminating her shape. He thinks about the way her ass looked between his hands as he pushed into her yesterday, and wishes he could better control his lust.

Twining his fingers through hers, he tugs gently—she looks over her shoulder, and he gestures with his head in the opposite direction. Veronica lets herself be pulled; and within ten seconds he’s got her in an alley, back flat against a wall, kissing her the way he’s wanted all day, her legs around his waist.

He maneuvers his hands under her skirt, into the rear of her skimpy panties, and the eager way she shifts to rub against him is hot, so hot…hotter than the no-ozone sunshine. This must be that special stage of drunkenness when hidden truths come clear, too, because suddenly, he understands why.

Logan Echolls is not, in any way, shape or form, supposed to be fucking Veronica Mars. So of COURSE he wants her badly, and pretty much constantly.

“Let’s go back to the boat,” he says, when the slow grind they’re enjoying makes wearing shorts unbearable. “So I can do what I’d like to you without getting arrested.”

“Murder me and throw me overboard?” she asks, gently biting his earlobe.

“Try the exact opposite,” he says, smiling into her eyes.

Riding back along the Malecon, sea foaming on one side, banks of hotels down the other, he watches brightly-dressed tourists throng the sidewalks. He takes her hand and looks down at it; her fingers are dainty, vulnerable, which is how he should perceive her. But he doesn’t—he knows there’s steel beneath. He wants to break her open, sometimes, just to check for weak spots.

They mount the gangplank in silence as dusk falls. Logan’s mood is edgy, volatile, emotions rousing like nocturnal animals as the bulk of his buzz wears off. He figures maybe booze will help, so he heads straight to the bar, which for some reason makes Veronica snap.

“Jesus,” she says, her tone so biting he turns to face her. Her arms are folded beneath her breasts and she looks a little volatile, too. “You’ve probably drunk a quart today, don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“Why do you care?” He watches her, hand on hip, amusement sliding through him as he realizes what her problem is. “Would you prefer I do something else?”

“Yes, something illegal,” she says, crisply. “Like you PROMISED. You’ve been hiding out in a bottle and teasing me all day, and I’m EXTREMELY tired of waiting.”

“Do you know,” he tilts his head faux-thoughtfully to one side, “Aaron built a special outdoor oasis onto the second-story foredeck? He wanted to sunbathe with starlets and not end up in Us Weekly, so he installed privacy screens. Paparazzi on ski boats--always a clear and present danger.”

“Is that so?” She unfolds from her defensive posture, but still seems tense. “I think I need to see for myself.”

He smirks and beckons, turns to head upstairs assuming she’ll follow. She’s ready to explode, it seems, and he’s looking forward to the spectacle.

When he reaches the platform, with its open-air lounge and ten-foot sun shades, he executes a spin, spreading his arms in display. “What do you think? Does it pass muster?”

“It’s perfect,” she says, stripping off her dress in one economical motion and tossing it aside. “Now get naked and do something about my frustration level before I murder YOU.”

He laughs, dispensing with his shirt as she stalks towards him, and unfastens his shorts so the zipper can’t scar. “Demanding,” he observes as he shucks them, gaze falling to her breasts. She plants a hand in the center of his chest, pushes, and he goes staggering back.

The backs of his knees hit a lounger and he sprawls supine with a bounce and thud. She kicks off her heels deliberately, one and then the other, eyes locked with his; he reclines on his elbows and watches, liking her aggressive.

Feline, she climbs atop, crawling up his body with a focus that makes him shiver. He says, “I feel like dinner.”

She sits back, planting herself on his groin with purpose, head cocked, eyes narrowed, and yeah, now he’s so hard it hurts. “Maybe you should.”

Her torso tilts, bending from the waist, she plants a hand on each side of him. Leans in to sink her teeth, very gently, into the spot beneath his ear, just like he did to her in the cab. He laughs, letting it sound dirty, hands smoothing down her back and curling around her ass. Squeezes, enjoying the soft, ripe give, while she licks a tendon in his throat and bites his collarbone.

“That’ll leave a mark.” He traces the string of her panties across her hip. “Are we playing rough today?”

“I’M playing.” She nuzzles down his chest and circles his nipple with her tongue. “You’re lying perfectly still until I’m done having fun…or I’ll stop. And I don’t get the sense, right now, that’s what you want.”

He huffs a laugh as she noses into the hair between his pecs, nipping gently, scraping with her teeth. “Exactly how much fun do you plan to have?” he asks. “Just so I’m prepared?”

She runs her tongue down his midline in answer, tugging lightly at the trail of hair. His cock rises up to meet her and she sucks the tip through the fabric of his boxers, smiling up at him in a calculating way that makes his blood rush. “Oh good,” he says, deliberately relaxing back, as she makes short work of the garment, shoving fabric down and off. “Possibly too much fun, for the game you have in mind. I always did enjoy a challenge.”

A peculiar kind of torture ensues, the sort a girl with devious instincts, little practical experience, and almost no patience finds tantalizing. She licks into his navel, sending his breath out in a soft rush, presses endearingly chaste kisses along his length. Draws the crown into the hot cavern of her mouth and sucks just slightly too hard, her blunt nails digging into his thighs. Grins wickedly while she does it, which elicits a surge of lust. He lets her, watching it all, fingers twitching with the effort not to guide her progress. Sinks into the pleasure of her lips and hands, her urge to unravel him.

He doesn’t like being the passive partner, usually, but something about the way Veronica tries to toy with him pushes his buttons, and it takes her maybe two minutes to drive him past the point of easy control. His hips are twitching restlessly as she sucks him steadily deeper, his hands are clenching as he pants, and it barely even sounds like his own dumbass voice saying, “Stop.”

She favors him with a bitchy arched brow, licking puffy red lips in a way that almost makes him come and asks, “Why?”

“I want you to go first.” He uses his most direct gaze on her without mercy because he knows she finds it hard to look away. “I want to watch you get off before I lose my head. It’s good like this…REALLY good…but I feel shut out. And I don’t LIKE being shut out, Veronica, especially not by the person who claims to understand me. It makes me feel…unpredictable.”

Pressing her mouth flat, she sits back, considering. “Okay.” She straddles his hips and puts her hands on his shoulders--her breasts swing towards him, tantalizingly close. “Then BE unpredictable. I didn’t burn all my bridges to run off with you because I wanted to play things SAFE.”

He smiles, not his nicest smile because he wants her to fret, and settles both hands at the curve of her waist. Slides his thumbs down, touch gentle, testing moisture and gaming out plans. She’s really wet—big surprise, she’s into being in charge—so he strokes her, feather-light, while the frantic quiver in his dick subsides.

Her head falls forwards, hair curtaining his view of her face, but her breath speeds up and then breaks on a moan. He lifts one hand to tuck the silky strands back, then slides it down across her collarbone to trace the shape of her nipple. The tip goes even tauter beneath his touch, gooseflesh breaking out, and any remaining doubts about how much she’s into him melt away.

“I used to imagine popping your cherry,” he says conversationally, stroking small circles around her clit, which makes her breathing deepen as she meets his gaze. “Did you know that?”

She shakes her head, goes back to watching his thumb toy with her. He fumbles in the drawer of the table beside him, pulls out a condom, tears the packet carefully with his teeth. It’s lurid pink, someone’s idea of a joke, but seems the right size; he rolls it on absently, absorbed in the sight of her shifting against his hand. “Sweet little Veronica Mars with her thinly-veiled dark side, disguised beneath layers of pink. There wasn’t a chance in hell it’d happen, you always picked vanilla boys so they wouldn’t blow your cover, but I had a plan to tease the truth out of you. Make you show your real face.”

“You can’t make me do anything.” She leans back on her hands, easing her thighs farther apart for him, and GOD he wants to sit up fast, push her back and just fuck her until she can’t stop moaning. He should have known she’d turn out to be a tease.

“Could,” he corrects, considering, and actually does the sitting-up part, because he wants her to feel the truth of it, the size and strength he’s got and she doesn’t. “Wouldn’t. It’s so very much more fun when you ASK.”

She looks up at him from beneath her lashes, considering, and he smiles in spite of himself because Jesus. “Please,” she says finally, voice both throaty and strained. Takes his cock in hand and impales herself on it with a sigh, sinking slowly down.

Narrowing his eyes against the bliss, he watches as she winds her arms around his neck, begins a slow, exquisite writhe. All that pearly Veronica skin is flushed delicate pink beneath the gilded setting sun, and her hair’s falling down from its flower-twined coiffure.

He avoids this, fucking face-to-face--it feels too much like love, which he’s not allowed. But with her, he can’t stop staring; at her mouth, pouting, the way she tilts her chin to watch him disappear inside her, the fierce focus as she gazes into his eyes. He folds his legs to give her support and traces shapes around her clit in rhythm, unraveling as he looks his fill. Palms her breast in a way that makes her arch her back and sigh. Shoves up from beneath in a way that makes her catch her breath and come.

Logan keeps his eyes open as he spills inside her, deep, luxurious pulses as if he’s staking claim. Then closes them as her contractions keep right on surging, like the sea battering the sides of the boat. Like this feels as undeniable and all-consuming to her as it does to him.

Like neither of them needs the complication, but their bodies and hearts didn’t get the memo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me a year to get un-stuck on this fic, and thanks to all of you who encouraged me to keep going. Extra thanks to CMackenzie, who cheered when I asked her to beta.


	4. Flare

Veronica falls asleep on top of him in the lounge chair, after wearing herself out on his dick. Logan’s exhausted too, and at this point, pretty trashed. But since she’s the whitest human being he’s ever, personally, met, and they’re moving closer to the equator, he knows passing out might end in second-degree burns. So he wraps her in a bath sheet, hauls her up in a bridal carry, and manages to stagger to his cabin without falling.

He tucks her into bed and then sprawls in the chair, the better to watch her sleep while brooding. Gradually, the sun sets outside the porthole; the rainbow-striped towel in which she’s curled like a kitten fades slowly to shades of grey. Veronica punches above her weight, he’s aware, and he’s never met anyone smarter. But the Neptune powerful she’s dissing are out of her league--and while she might not realize that yet, he does. He needs to locate the extra-strength Tylenol and quit getting too drunk to walk straight. Even if whatever’s waiting in Ixtapa isn’t dangerous, it’s his responsibility, as her friend and possibly more, to keep her safe.

Eventually, the hypnotic sway of the boat, the flash of runner lights reflecting off dark water, lull him. He dozes and jerks awake several times; finally abandons pretense and climbs into bed, spooning her from behind and tugging up the comforter. She smells salty, like brine and suntan oil, overlaying her soft-and-powdery white-flower musk. He buries his nose in her neck as he drifts…breathes in essence of Veronica, comforting pragmatism mixed with sin.

XXXXX

It’s the stillness that wakes him, who knows how much later. The boat isn’t moving; and while it seems unfathomable he might have slept twelve hours straight, Veronica’s up and dressing and the sunlight’s bright.

“I take this to mean playtime’s over?” He sits up and rubs his eyes. V quits buckling a sandal to glance his direction—she’s in white shorts and a turquoise tank, hair wound intricately in the most adorable of cinnamon buns. Smiling faintly at the no-doubt-slovenly picture he makes, she turns back to her delicate task.

“We slept all the way to Ixtapa,” she confirms, carefully smoothing the strap. “My errand will only take an hour or two. Feel free to go back to sleep.”

“And miss all the fun?” He shakes his head and climbs out of bed, digs for shorts and dons them commando. “Uh-uh, my yacht, my rules. No WAY do you get to sneak off on mysterious adventures while yours truly dozes. My curiosity couldn’t stand the strain.”

She sighs. “Logan, you know how I used to help my dad investigate, sometimes? Well I’m following up on a case of his now that never got solved and…it’s dangerous. You might THINK you want to hear details, but trust me--you’re better off ignorant.”

“If what you say is true,” he keeps his voice even, locating a pale-green OP tee and yanking it over his head, “I’m all the more determined not to miss a second.”

“Fine.” She folds her arms, studying him in a way that makes him mirror her pose. “Maybe it’ll do you good to see how the ninety-nine percent lives. But don’t whine, once you’re in trouble up to your neck, about how I didn’t warn you.”

“Aw, Ronnie, your skepticism wounds me. You know I love to live on the edge.” He adds bite to the chiding tone, to emphasize his determination, and gestures for her to precede him.

Outside, it’s hot and bright; the yacht’s berthed at mid-point on a curving arc of sand that separates an aquamarine bay from a verdant, hilly village. Off in the distance, rolling mountains stretch up towards the clouds; the multitude of speedboats zipping through surf sound like a humming swarm of bees.

“So where next?” He squints into the brightness, accepts and dons the sunglasses she hands him. “We meeting a trench-coat-clad Deep Throat in some dingy back alley?”

“Nope.” She descends the lowered gangplank, gesturing for him to follow. “But if all goes well, we’ll inflict a surprise visit on an old and sketchy friend.”

XXXXX

“I think this is it,” she says, half an hour later, as the cab that’s dropped them on a backwater street roars away in a cloud of caliche dust. Examines, once more, the photo she’s extracted from her bra, compares it to the fading-white-washed adobe in front of them. She knocks on the peeling, green-painted door, which shifts open a few inches; when no one answers, she pokes in her nose. “Hello?”

It’s dark and cool inside, welcome respite from blistering midday heat, so Logan lines up behind her and rests his chin on her scalp. Spots movement in the direction of what looks like a kitchen. “Hey, anyone home?”

A male head, with a case of salt-stiff bed hair that might be permanent and a four-day growth of greying stubble, peers out from around the corner, brows raised. Apparently deciding there’s no threat, the whole guy emerges, potbellied in a red-flowered shirt that hangs open over his grey-matted chest. “Was that English?” he asks, shuffling closer, a gallon of cheap bourbon dangling from one finger. His voice is as sonorous as that Price Is Right announcer’s, but gravelly from the clear case of alcoholism he’s nurturing. “Who are you, and why are you standing in my house?”

“He’s a friend of mine, Cliffie.” Veronica pushes the door wide and walks through. Logan follows, closing it behind. “I kinda-sorta hijacked his yacht.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Cliff lifts the bottle to his lips and enjoys a swig, giving Logan a lackadaisical once-over. “Both that you know rich college students with yachts, and that you’re capable of shanghaiing them without notice?”

“I yam what I yam.” Veronica shrugs, unrepentant, and Logan hides a smile. Her smarmy friend gestures with his head, leading them through orange swinging doors.

These open into a den decorated in Late Seventies Nightmare; round sofa upholstered in mustard-and-rust florals, green shag carpet. There’s a Hula Girl lamp with a red scarf thrown over the shade; and in a papa-san chair by a blackout-curtained window a tall, slender woman smokes a joint. She’s younger than the used-car-salesman-gone-to-seed, pretty but jaded—her braids are tied carelessly atop her head with a red bandanna. She’s fanning herself lazily using an ancient magazine, and her green-embroidered dress is finely dusted with ash.

“Hope you stocked up on spam and olives this week, light of my life.” Cliff gestures magnanimously for his guests to sit, then plants himself on the round whatever-it-is and enjoys another belt. “Because look who showed up for cocktails.”

The woman squints through a sticky-sweet haze. “Veronica Mars? How on earth did you make it out here to the ass end of beyond?”

“Yacht,” Cliff says succinctly, with a perfunctory wave Logan’s direction. “His, to be precise.”

“Huh, you look familiar too.” The woman sits up, taking another drag, then extends the joint in their direction. “I’ve seen you in some magazine. Or maybe on TV.”

“Wow, TMZ’s EVERYWHERE these days.” Logan drapes himself across a red bean bag and accepts the offering, because never look an hour of not giving a shit in the mouth. Draws smoke deep, closing his eyes at the sensation, and lets the conversation drift around him until he has to exhale.

“…right behind my picture of Backup,” Veronica is saying, when he finally refocuses. She’s sitting beside Cliff, waving away the proffered bottle; and even in this dim, hot room, her skin and hair somehow glow. “Said if I showed up and asked, you’d hand over a bequest.”

“A bequest.” Cliff sits back, frowning, sets the bottle carefully on the floor. “So he’s dead, then?”

“For almost four years.” Veronica stares at her hands, which she’s kneading together, and abruptly her fingers still. “I’m sorry, I assumed you’d heard. We held a ceremony, a good old-fashioned wake, but, you know. I figured it was…too far to travel just to praise a framed photo.”

“Distance ain’t the problem.” The woman takes the joint back from Logan and examines its ember. “What keeps us away is the destination. Any trouble in Neptune from now till forever, we plan on missing.”

“I remember things got hairy for you guys.” Veronica coughs, wrinkling her nose, as Cliff’s girlfriend expels a stream of smoke. “Something about a hit-and-run? For what it’s worth, Dad tried not to involve the rest of us.”

“I involved MYSELF. Keith was my best friend.” Cliff stands, weaving a little, pats Veronica awkwardly on the shoulder…a small comfort years too late. “Loretta, entertain our guests a minute, would you? I’ll go find the…bequest…package…whatever. I think I hid it in the garage. And crack a window or something, you know how paranoid dope makes V.”

“Crack a window, all the smoke’ll blow out.” Loretta studies Veronica, who’s tracing burnt-umber upholstery roses with one finger. Logan appropriates the roach for one last hit. “You still turn paranoid, Veronica? Even though if someone was out to get you, they already would’ve?”

“She hates to lose control,” Logan opines, smirking when this elicits a scowl from his partner-in-crime. “Most of the time, anyway. Veronica prefers to run the show.”

“If anyone else did a better job of managing things,” V crosses her arms, distractingly emphasizing her cleavage, “I’d be fine playing second banana.”

“Lies upon lies.” Logan laughs at her expression. “I expect you could fake composure, but admit it. You’d chafe.”

“Why do I think you could help her relax?” Loretta nudges Logan with her elbow, and Veronica turns the frown on her. “I know who you are now, yacht boy. That actor’s kid—the one bought the big-ass house on the cliff, right over Neptune Bay. You used to drink weekends at my sister’s club, had a real convincing fake ID.”

“Correct on the first guess.” He settles into the beanbag, letting his head loll back; studies a sinuous ceiling stain and tries to suppress emotion. “I am indeed the movie star’s misbegotten son. My sole and ever-defining core identity—no other trait I possess matters.”

“Hey, don’t knock power,” Loretta advises, gesturing at an enormous ceramic ashtray as Logan snuffs the roach with a pinch. He obligingly tosses the detritus. “If you’ve got something folks want, you can trade it for safety when shit gets real.”

“Mmm, a novel concept,” he muses, because that’s a laugh. “Safety’s an illusion. Believing in which, I feel, is more damaging than just acknowledging life sucks. But it’s true having any excess within reach can be a rush for short bursts of time.”

Veronica clears her throat like she has Things to Say on this topic (of course she does, Veronica has opinions on EVERY topic). But before she can, the smack of the swinging door heralds Cliff’s return. Logan shoves upright, ignoring the room’s slight spin, as their poorly-groomed host says, “What’s a rush? And more importantly, have you got extra?”

“Power,” Loretta explains, as Cliff hands Veronica a dusty Manila envelope, and he rolls his eyes. “Hey, you may not want any, but it’s still got value.”

“I strive to be as unimportant to the unscrupulous as possible.” Cliff retrieves his bottle from the floor by Veronica’s feet. “A mouse in a room full of elephants has a higher chance of survival than a lion.”

Veronica gazes down at the envelope instead of opening it, tracing the scrawled address with one finger. “Do you know what’s in here?”

Cliff swallows booze, belches discreetly into his fist, shakes his head. “Another box came first—Keith said it was a care package, but I guess he fibbed. The letter inside warned against opening anything else he sent, and requested I stash the envelopes somewhere safe, just in case. For what purpose, I didn’t know…honestly, V, I forgot all about that thing.”

“And this is the only one?” She slips a finger under the seal, decides against tearing it. Turns a steady gaze on Cliff he can’t seem to hold.

“If there were more, I don’t remember.” He shrugs, scratching behind his ear. “I found that shoved in a crate behind my law books. I hope whatever’s inside isn’t smashed.”

“What was in your care package?” she asks, and the way she does so, studiedly faux-casual, puts Logan on notice. “The box meant for you?”

“Just old photos.” Cliff smiles. “Taken in our younger days. A box of cigars. A handful of noir videos and the hat I always liked. Nothing that matters, V, in case you’re wondering.”

“You’ve watched all the videos?” she persists. “Beginning to end?”

Cliff shakes his head. “They’re just films, Veronica. I understand the urge to bark up every tree, in circumstances like these. But Keith’s blurry copies of Bogart classics are the wrong one.”

Her shoulders slump; Logan tilts forwards enough to grab the toe of her sandal, gives it a shake. She glances up at him, managing a twisted half-smile, and he asks, “Can I use your phone to call a cab? We were in such a hurry this morning we forgot to eat, and abruptly I’m starving.”

“No phone, sorry.” Cliff tilts against the wall with a sigh, cradling the steadily-emptying liquor bottle like it’s a puppy. “There’s a bus stop a few blocks east. The town keeps a semi-regular schedule, and the Zihua Centro will take you back to the Bay. Or feel free to stay--we’re not really chefs, here, but we can manage dinner from a can.”

“Pass.” Logan tries not to wince. “But if you’ve got cold drinks for the road, my cotton-mouth and I won’t say no.”

“Beers in the fridge.” Loretta leans back with a sigh, stretching out her legs and making circles in the air with her feet. “Take care of Veronica, party boy. And let’s hope trouble won’t trail behind ‘cause the two of you dropped in.”

Logan essays an exaggerated double-fingers-crossed gesture before heaving himself up; because fuck them for worrying about themselves, not Veronica. Follows Cliff into the piled-high-with-dishes kitchen to accept Carta Blancas, then leads his adorable blonde kidnapper outside.

She surprises him by hugging Cliff tightly before she goes…surprises Cliff too, from the looks of it, and gets booze sloshed down her arm for her trouble. But the guy returns her embrace, patting, and says, “Take care of yourself, okay? It’s what your dad would want.” So Logan cuts him slack.

“Always have, always will.” She fakes briskness, smiling, and salutes with the still-unopened package. But once they’re outside in the hot, dusty street, she seems, just slightly, to wilt.

“Not the outcome you wanted?” He gives in to the urge to sling an arm around her shoulders as they scuff down the unpaved Avenida. Instead of stiffening, as he expects, she melts gratefully against him—all give, no resistance, with a trust that’s shockingly seductive.

“I thought he would know more,” she admits, her small hand snaking into his back pocket. “I assumed he left town because my dad confided in him…but it seems that guess was wrong.”

“If good old Cliff’s so trustworthy, why didn’t you open that envelope back in the air conditioning?” Logan gestures with his chin at the package in her hand. When she doesn’t answer, he nudges her with a shoulder. “To protect him, maybe, from the knowledge of what’s inside? Think your dad kept him ignorant for the same reason?”

She smiles, rueful, as they reach an intersection; pauses to let a rusting pickup pass before leading him across. The heat is enervating, rising up from the ground in waves, sapping Logan’s motivation. He cracks his beer to take a swig, feeling like they’re strolling among coals in a barbecue.

“I’d hate to be the cause, if trouble DOES come a-knockin,” she admits, retrieving her hand to twist off her own cap. When she fails, she trades it for his beer with a wink. “A girl can never be too careful.”

“Veronica,” he says, as they reach the end of the block, circling the faded-grey bench there and slumping onto it gratefully, “this super-secret case you’re investigating. It’s not one Keith had in the works, per se, is it? You’re trying to find his murderer.”

She harrumphs as she plunks down beside him, tilting her beer back to drink, grimacing adorably at the taste. He wants to grin, because A) he’s really fucking high and B) she’s so very fucking cute, but this is a moment of gravity. So he just tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear and waits for her to spill.

“Dad left me a note,” she admits finally. “Or a picture, really…a photo of him and Cliff, playing poker. I found it in my wallet, about a week after…you know.”

Logan nods. He’ll never forget holding Veronica’s hand in the police station while she sobbed, as the detective described the crime scene; deserted patch of woods, car door hanging open, Keith’s wallet, keys, handgun and blood-covered windbreaker inside. Deputies searched for unmarked graves all week, leading cadaver dogs over every inch of dirt, and during that time he doubts V slept.

“On the back he wrote, ‘Ask about your bequest,’ but by that point Cliff and Loretta had gone into hiding. It took…a really long time to track them down.”

_And you could have hopped a plane to Ixtapa the minute you did_ , he thinks, brushing the residue of Cliff’s bourbon off her skin. _But instead you came to my beach party, even though you had zero interest in revelry…because maybe you didn’t want to handle this clusterfuck alone._

“So who are our suspects?” he asks, lightly, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankles. “I can’t promise deductive brilliance after four hits of Loretta’s kush, but I’ll do my best to keep up with yours.”

“I don’t have any yet.” She fiddles with the seal of the envelope, tearing a corner loose and pressing it nervously back down. “He was working this case, the disappearance of a twenty-two year old housekeeper, and he tied it to several other missing women—in Neptune, San Diego, LA, across the border. The connection between crimes never made the papers, most California victims weren’t legal, but dad knew. He couldn’t get anyone Federal to listen, though; and after a while, evidence started disappearing, witnesses clammed up. Mom got sick of the drama and left, the bank foreclosed for what they said were late payments, and ultimately he got fired from the force. Blocked at every turn because he wouldn’t quit asking questions.”

“So someone powerful tried to shut him up.” Logan opens his bottle, gazes over the mouth at the ancient bus wheezing up the road. It’s blue and white, with a missing front grille, and the route’s painted in shoe polish on the windshield. “Just like I thought. You’re in over your head.”

“I can handle myself,” she says, dismissively, and he’s surprised at the burst of angst this elicits, despite his narcotic calm.

“You THINK you can,” he corrects, standing as the bus shudders to a stop. Extends a hand to help her which she pointedly ignores. “You also think you successfully managed Jake, but let me tell you, Veronica, if he wasn’t massively inconsistent in his treatment of daughters, Lilly wouldn’t be both spoiled and insecure. You really believe he won’t notice you’ve disappeared? Or that he’ll be fine with this Quixotic quest of yours?”

She snatches the handful of pesos he digs from his pocket and stomps up the stairs of the bus. He follows, lackadaisical, while she pays the ancient driver and power-walks to the back. Speaks with hushed but manifest scorn as soon as he sits beside her. “Like I’d trust ANY guy who treats one child so preferentially. Give me a little credit. And by the way, his cosseting does your apparently-former BFF ZERO favors, Logan. Duncan’s a straight-A earning, deeply-damaged robot lately, and that’s on his GOOD days.”

Logan’s silent, gazing out the window as the bus tilts perilously then picks up speed. “They’ve been giving him pills,” he admits, when the discomfort of being stared at gets excessive. “Duncan caught me reading the label once in his bathroom. I think it’s why he stopped hanging around.”

“They give him pills because he has weird epileptic episodes.” V’s tone grows softer, more sympathetic, which surprises him into meeting her eyes. “Jake thinks he’s fooled me, he’s always got an explanation handy. But I wasn’t in that house two weeks before Duncan got stressed about a C on some Geometry test and laughed uncontrollably for ten minutes. I think he has seizures, too. Several times I’ve heard him screaming nonsense, and whoever went to check on him came back bruised.”

“Are you serious?” Logan remembers, with a faint sense of guilt, the time he noticed bruises on Lilly’s wrists. And assumed her Adventure of the Week had gotten rough, when he, of all people, should have recognized the signs.

“As a heart attack. I googled his symptoms extensively, then started locking my bedroom door.” She curls a consoling palm around Logan’s wrist.  “Luckily, his episodes are rare. And the family’s careful to keep our home environment trigger-free…even Lilly takes her drama elsewhere.”

“Yeah, straight to me,” he mutters. Smiles faintly as she squeezes his arm.

“Lilly just wants to be noticed. And in my estimation…you don’t often, anymore.”

“I got tired of games.” He turns his hand beneath hers, entwines their fingers. The bus jounces, and a woman on the front bench lets loose a litany of complaint. “The constant attempts to make me jealous, to punish me with other guys…she used to tie me up in knots, but at some point I just…quit caring. Let my maid’s grandson supply the fawning she clearly craves. Rumor has it I belong to you now, anyway.”

Veronica smiles, arch. “I think the member of that twosome most desperate for your attention isn’t Lilly.”

Logan rolls his eyes. “As if. I like to keep my sex and violence separate, thanks. I don’t have many standards, but that one’s iron-clad.”

“Weevil’s definitely not your usual cheerleader type,” V admits, gaze drifting, as if unwilling, to the package in her hand. “Then again, neither am I.”

“You literally WERE a cheerleader, once,” Logan corrects, because if she thinks he’s not attracted she’s paying zero attention. But her interest in the conversation has waned, so he quits protesting. “Gonna take the bull by the horns and open that thing?”

She sighs, disentangling her hand from his to better cradle the envelope. Then, lips thinning with determination, rips apart the seal.

Inside is a notebook—a thin, black moleskin with an unadorned cover, the kind Keith used for case notes back in the day. V runs a palm tenderly against the grain, flips to the first page. Her eyes fill with tears.

Logan leans closer to read and frowns; it’s just song lyrics, spelled out in careful all-caps, much tidier than Keith’s usual scrawl.

_But we've been putting nickels in the National Bank_

_And when those nickels pile up, we can toddle off in swank_

_And I don't mean a tour of some lovers’ causeway_

_I mean a deluxe tour, if you’re headed my way_

_Someday we'll go places_

_Sail boats and drag races_

_‘Cause you’ve got the key to my locks_

_Freedom’s coming, we’re ready_

_Don’t forget to pack Teddy_

_Let's take a walk around the block_

She flips rapidly through the remaining pages. Some are numbered, out of order, others contain doodles, a bridge, a church, a poorly-drawn cartoon of Albert Einstein. Most are completely blank.

“Cryptic, much?” Logan mutters, but she just looks at him with exasperation and claps the notebook shut.

“Clearly you’re not a Gershwin fan,” she says, which Logan feels should go without saying. “Or a history buff.”

“Or a detective,” he agrees, curling an arm around her, then bracing himself as the bus takes a corner at high velocity. Packages go tumbling, which provokes a general round of cursing from the many passengers. “Luckily, you seem to be all three.”

“My dad used old songs and puzzles to teach me subjects I didn’t like, in junior high,” she explains, with a reminiscent smile. “He knew I could never resist a mystery, so he’d change the lyrics to pepper them with clues. I’d sing along and memorize the lesson while trying to guess the topic.”

Logan’s father paid people to summarize material and do all homework, because he considered low grades bad publicity. But his objectively shitty upbringing has no relevance here. “And did you unscramble the clues? Have you guessed his secret message?”

“Teddy Roosevelt built the Panama Canal to ship goods more easily between the Atlantic and Pacific, Logan. It’s a series of locks, which allow cargo vessels to cross the isthmus instead of traveling all the way around South America. Which you would know if you’d ever GONE to American History class, instead of ditching to surf. Then having Shelly Pomroy abuse her office aide gig to swipe attendance passes.”

He shrugs. American history is mostly a tale of rich people refusing to pay taxes, then mistreating poor immigrants to get richer—both tactics he’s seen in action since grade school. “Your Dad went to all this trouble so you could ponder economic imperialism?”

“There’s something waiting for me in the National Bank of Panama,” she says, like this conclusion should be obvious even to morons. “If you hoped I was done hijacking your yacht, looks like you wished in vain.”


End file.
